


sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything

by andawaywego



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Mentions of Finn/Rachel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 02:56:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3920302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andawaywego/pseuds/andawaywego
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You wonder what face Finn would make if he could see you spooning his ex-girlfriend in your bed one night." Faberry post season six.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: i own nothing of importance. hence my empty wallet.
> 
> spoilers: through season 5 and for the main setup of season 6.
> 
> pairings: well, it's Faberry endgame and throughout, but there's a lot of Finchel in here too, but i promise nothing too heavy.
> 
> a/n: okay, so this is set in a weird, post-season six universe. i usually edge around the death of Finn's character because it's such a difficult topic, for anyone really. so decided to actually try to write about it this time.
> 
> i actually plan on doing a second part from Quinn's side, if that's something people would be interested in, so let me know.
> 
> i also use a great deal of musical and theatre terms in this, so i suggest looking up any that you are unfamiliar with.
> 
> that is all.
> 
> A/N 2: Still moving stuff over. This was also written and posted before Season 6, so it's somewhat inaccurate but only if you squint and ignore that five years later thing.

...

  
_sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything._

..

_Entr'acte._

..

Like you're on stage and you can't remember your lines.

Which would never happen because _Rachel Berry_ does not forget her lines.

But that was when you knew what you were doing—that you'd be famous for your voice and people would look past the nose thing, would find your high school experiences inspirational.

That was when you'd had your primo uomo, your leading man, from the start—from that moment you'd heard the way your voice sounded mixed with his.

That was before you'd gotten that— _God_ —that phone call and worn a black dress by his headstone.

And there's some sort of irony in the fact that it took this, right here, to leave you speechless when you've never had trouble finding words before.

Your heart is somewhere at your feet and you're getting dizzy just looking at her because you're the one who does this. You're the one who falls in love with someone you're not supposed to.

You're the one who gets her heart broken and you're not prepared to do it to someone else.

But you know her so well—have for years—and you know without acknowledging it that she's about to cry.

Her eyes are the most devastated that they've been since Beth maybe and you know that she's on the verge of _losing_ it.

So you cough to break the silence. You say, "Quinn, I—"

..

_Exposition._

…

Much to Mr. Schuester's embarrassment, you turn out to be a much better glee club director than he ever was.

The only year you coach, you lead the New Directions to their second victory at nationals.

It's not particularly surprising because of your years of motivational speeches—performed for yourself in your bathroom mirror—and vocal training. Still, everyone seems a little surprised.

You end up going back to New York because it's the only place that doesn't scream _**Finn**_ into your bones just from looking around.

Your head hurts. Pretty much all the time.

The apartment gets a little more crowded when Blaine arrives, which is fine because Santana and Brittany have been moved out forever and you spend all of your time in bed anyway.

Sometimes you get dressed and go to auditions, but you never get the part.

This goes on for a month before she calls you.

 _Quinn Fabray_ lights up the screen of your phone with a picture of her that you can't remember taking.

You try to ignore it, almost succeed.

But then the guilt makes you nauseated and you answer with a hoarse, "Hello?"

.

That's how it starts.

Quinn Fabray wedges herself into your life at that moment and you almost forget how it was before she did.

She visits you that weekend and every weekend after for a year.

She becomes your best friend accidentally and suddenly she's the only person you can stand.

It's strange because, for a while, she stopped being an important part of your life and now you're pretty sure she's the only thing you have going for you.

She's a Picardy third—a minor melody, character, person in your life, who suddenly became major.

It takes a while, but eventually she's able to make it so that you can hear his name without hurting.

About two months after that phone call, you start classes back up at NYADA and you cry that first weekend after when she's there because you're so far behind.

She hugs you and you're pretty sure she means it, so you hug her back.

She calls you, "Rachel fucking Berry," and says that, if anyone can catch up, it's you.

You believe her because you don't exactly have a lot of other options.

It turns out to be a good thing, though, because you do catch up.

And how.

You're caught up, academically, by the next year, which your advisor says is practically unheard of.

.

It happens two weeks into September, on one of the rare occasions where you go to New Haven rather than her coming to New York.

She's an RA now and has her own dorm, which is nice, and you're sitting on her bed with _Grease_ paused because she'd gotten up to get food.

She comes back with a few cartons of the Chinese food you'd gotten after she'd picked you up at the train station.

"Excuse me," she says playfully as she crosses in front of you to sit down.

"You're not excused," you tell her and she rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

She seems surprised that you're joking around, but she grins and it's blinding.

It's when Sandy and Danny are singing _You're the One That I Want_  because all you can think about is that first glee rehearsal that Finn had been at—how you'd nearly scared him off with the mere power and intensity of your stare.

Quinn must know something is up—must feel the shift in the mattress and your shoulders hitch, as you draw into yourself to soften the blow.

Suddenly her hand is there, her fingers between yours. "You're okay," she whispers and you turn to her, almost against your will.

Your eyes meet as Sandy sings, " _You better prove that my faith is justified_ ," and it's so achingly familiar, this almost rondo, like déjà vu, but on repeat—the way that you've been here before, with this song, with this look that meant more than it meant, that foreshadowed so many things and years.

But she's not Finn, even if her name sounds similar.

She's Quinn and you're certain—completely positive—that, if she keeps looking at you like that, you're absolutely fucked.

.

You spend the Monday after that laying in bed.

Kurt comes in and tries to coax you out, but you barely look at him. His demeanor changes and he storms off. It's okay though and you know he wants to yell at you because everyone, you included, thought that you were past this.

It just feels like you're going behind Finn's back, like the time your junior year, when you'd kissed Noah as revenge.

Except you're not dating him—weren't dating him those months before he was gone—but somehow that makes it worse.

Because there's this huge hunk of you that has moved past Finn, that's healing and wants Quinn more than anything—wants to pull her into your arms and kiss her senseless—even while the rest of you is trying to sink into the ground with him.

You want to scream, you want to punch the wall or yourself or Kurt or anyone.

You want to feel better.

.

Quinn comes that weekend because you insist.

After being ignored for days, she thinks that you're angry with her and the first hour she's there is spent in silence on your futon watching the news.

She's nothing like Finn, you think as you trace the line of her jaw, the slope of her neck, with your eyes.

When he thought you were mad at him, he'd show up with non-vegan chocolates you couldn't eat and whine for forgiveness.

But she simply clenches her jaw, crosses her arms, and waits it out.

You finger the ragged edge of the purposeful tear in the knee of your jeans.

You try to stop comparing her to Finn, try to stop thinking of the two of them in terms of imitative polyphony, when it's more non-imitative because they're two distinct melodies that just happen to harmonize at unexpected moments.

"Do you want to go get dinner?" you ask, when the silence becomes suffocating.

She doesn't look at you, but she does say, "Yes."

.

There's an IHOP open a block away, so you go there.

It's mostly empty, which is fine because it means your food is quick.

She folds up her straw wrapper, then yours, into shapes that vaguely resemble Stonehenge.

She doesn't ball them up and flick them across the table, which is as good as it is confusing.

It just means that Quinn really isn't doubling; she doesn't exist for herself and for Finn simultaneously.

For the first time, you think that you probably shouldn't either.

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

She looks up from her folded straw wrappers and frowns. "What are you sorry for?" she asks. "I thought I was the one who needed to apologize."

You shrug. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Sure seemed like I did."

Under the table, you rest your ankles against hers. Her head jerks up and she looks confused, so you maintain eye contact.

"You didn't, Quinn. Really."

You feel her ankles shift against you, pushing closer.

Her voice is quiet. "Okay."

.

You've been doing this thing since his funeral where you look down at your hand and try to remember what it was like when it was warmly, firmly held in his.

It's been getting harder to do.

You're not actually sure if you're wishing his hand would actually, physically be there, or if you're wishing he was there and had the option and ability to hold your hand.

You start to do it again as you walk with Quinn to your apartment.

She has the bag of your boxed leftovers in her right hand and you glance at it, then at your own right hand.

It's been over a year and you're good at acting, not pretending, so you give up.

But Quinn is there and she's talking to you about her History of Television class and her teeth are so white, even though it's almost midnight.

You grab her hand.

To say that you do it without thinking would be incorrect, because you do think about it. It's a conscious decision and action, one that requires a choice.

It's actually almost like you're beyond yourself when you do because you know that the you from four years prior would never have done such a thing—grabbing Quinn Fabray's hand in the street and lacing your fingers with hers.

But the Quinn Fabray from four years prior would have smacked your hand away, would have called you some mean name and pretended not to care about you.

This Quinn just blushes, smiles at you, and continues talking.

.

This is how it progresses;

You start touching more and more and neither of you talk about it.

Suddenly it's an oddity if you're sitting or walking beside her and you're not holding her hand.

Your hugs last longer and the smell of her lingers on your skin for hours.

You steal one of her Yale crewnecks and wear it every other day.

It's possible that you don't question it because you think, if you do, it will stop or change and you've missed being touched more than anything.

But it's also some sort of confidence boost, some kind of justice to have Quinn Fabray, who used to call you names and order slushy attacks on you, hold your hand and kiss your head.

You're certain that if someone had told you five years ago that you would one day you'd know without a doubt that Quinn has feelings for you, you would have scoffed and walked away.

.

Thanksgiving break is spent going between each other's houses because you spend ninety percent of the time you're with her thinking about her and it's about ten times worse when you're not physically with her.

You're at her house enough that you have to start calling her mother, "Judy," and she's at yours enough that your dads start referring to her as their second daughter.

It makes you think of when they would call Finn, "son," but, for some reason, you don't have to fight back tears at all.

Sometimes, when you're hugging her goodbye or holding her hand on the couch, your fathers will pass by and give you a look—not questioning or judgmental, but curious.

Almost heartbroken.

You wonder what face Finn would make if he could see you spooning his ex-girlfriend in your bed one night.

You decide that he would probably just be glad you found someone who fits into your body so well.

.

You don't want to go back to Lima for winter break, even though everyone, including your roommates, is going back.

Even if you've stopped aching when you hear his name, that town will always belong to Finn.

But then Quinn says, "Please come home," during a Skype call one night and you change your mind.

Mostly, you're not certain if, by "home", she means your house or her.

.

You're starting to figure out this is basically all improvisation.

There is no set blocking or rhythm—no absolutes, which is the scariest part.

You don't have a script like you had with Finn, where it felt as though all of your lines, all of your actions, were decided beforehand by someone who just wanted to see the end result.

If Finn was serialism, then Quinn is definitely atonal—she's a shock, and difficult, because she doesn't conform to his scale and, you're not really sure what that means.

But you do know that you want both Quinn and Finn without having to sacrificing one for the other.

You hope you won't have to.

.

The week you get home, Quinn asks you to go Christmas shopping with her.

The Lima mall is by no means spectacular, but there's a bookstore that draws Quinn in, almost magnetically, after she buys her mother a sweater from another store.

She walks around as though in a daze, and you release her hand and say, "I'll be in the music section."

You're not sure if she's hears you, but you leave anyway.

It takes her about a half an hour to come looking for you, and you're looking through a CD rack by the self-help aisle.

"Sorry about that," she says with a book in the hand that's not holding the shopping bag.

You glance at her and smile, then look back down at the CDs. "It's fine, sweetie. I know how you are about books."

Out of the corner of your eye, you see her bob her head. "Did you find anything you like?" she asks.

You shake your head and say, "Not particularly."

"Thanks for coming with me," she says. "I'm sure this wasn't your idea of a fun night."

You stop browsing and look at her. "I always have fun with you," you say, smiling again.

She flushes and looks a little sick.

You're glancing at the back of a David Bowie album when she blurts out, "I'm in love with you, Rachel," so carelessly that you almost don't register it even being said.

You swallow and want to be thankful that you're not about to perform at Regionals in a few minutes—that she'd been more considerate in her declaration than Finn had been that first time.

You're not sure what else to do, so you, slowly, look up at her.

..

_Recapitulation._

..

You had your first piano lesson when you were six years old.

It had been a bit of a disaster—not because you weren't good, but because you'd insisted on trying to sound out your favourite songs until the instructor had gotten so frazzled, she'd cut the lesson short.

Your fathers, who have always gone above and beyond to be supportive, bought you a piano despite that first lesson. They wanted you to be able to play whatever you wanted without getting in trouble for it.

You'd spent hours fingering keys and singing "Tomorrow" from _Annie_ under your breath until you'd gotten it down.

At dinner that night, you'd told your fathers about it and they'd insisted on hearing you play it before they did dishes.

It was the only time you can ever remember getting stage fright and your finger had missed that second jump from G to F and hit about four notes at once.

That's what it feels like when Quinn says that she's in love with you—like you know this song, this dance, because you've played it before, been a participant.

You've seen the sheet music, read the script, and you should know your lines by heart.

But this is Quinn. This is Quinn who is, by no means, Finn.

So it's new, it's a fumble. It's playing five notes at once and three of them are in the wrong key.

And all you can think about is the fact that Finn is still there, even if the doors are closing. He's a ghost light in a darkened theatre and Quinn may have helped you strike the set that he built around you, but the backdrops are still rolled up under the stage.

But you look at her, this girl that you want more than anything, and you think that Finn would never have denied you happiness.

The two of you may not have always been on the same page, but he always wanted you to find someone that you wanted like this—someone who wanted you back.

And you've been silent for too long and Quinn looks like she's about to run, even if you're not sure where she'd go.

Somehow, you calmly manage to set the CD down and open your mouth to speak.

..

_Denouement._

..

You, who has always had the words to say what you mean.

You, who has aimlessly fallen in love with this girl who used to draw dirty pictures of you in bathroom stalls.

You stand there and you open your mouth and you say, "Quinn, I—"

But you don't get to finish, which is probably for the best because you're not sure what you would have even said.

"That's okay," Quinn says helplessly, cutting you off. Her voice is broken in a way that sounds like she's drowning. "Let's just forget I said anything. I'll drive you home."

She turns to lead you from the store but you manage to say, "Quinn, wait," before she gets too far.

She stops and turns to you, unsurely, and you can see that she's trying not to cry, and you want to bridge this gap between you and hold her so that she doesn't.

"You don't have to say it," she says. "I know that…with…Finn and…and everything that's happened that you…that y-you can't, okay? I understand."

She's actually crying now and you're thankful that it's late and the only other people around are on the other side of the store because they don't deserve to see this.

You're not even sure you do.

"But I know that this goes both ways," she continues, her voice cracking a little. "I'm not blind or-or…or stupid and I've… _God_ …Rachel, I've loved you for so long. But I know…I can't _imagine_ how hard things have been for you…so…I get that you can't…I'll respect your decision."

You wrap your arms around your middle because you're sure that you're seconds away from collapsing and you've never felt more foolish in your entire life.

Because this isn't a performance and life is not a stage.

The curtains don't close on happy endings and people break hearts instead of legs.

Quinn is not an understudy and Finn has not been recast.

Life isn't black and white—it's shades of murky, blended colors with landslides that can bury you alive.

But there are people who can pull you out—people who can patch you up and make you whole again—and you know that Finn would understand what Quinn has done for you, the lengths she's gone to stitch you back together.

He would understand that she makes you happier than you thought you deserved to be after he left you.

He wouldn't hold you back.

So you look at her, this girl you're in love with. You look at her crying in the middle of a bookstore on a snowy night in December because she thinks that this is it—that this is her one shot and she never stood a chance.

You look at her, you take a step forward, and you say, " _Quinn_ ," with as much force and as much love as you can gather.

"What?" she whispers, barely audible, and then sniffles a little and runs her fingers under her eye.

You reach out and your hand finds the lapel of her coat.

She looks from you to your hand and back to you.

"I can."

She's caught off guard, so you step forward a few more steps, reaching your other hand up to cup her jaw.

Her breath hitches in a way that leaves you feeling lightheaded. You kiss her—firmly and reverently—because you've wanted to for so long.

It takes her less than two seconds to kiss you back, hands touching your waist tentatively, as though she's afraid of breaking you or waking up.

She's the one to pull away because you're trained in holding your breath and she isn't.

Her eyes stay on you, running over your face, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"What?" you ask, because you know she's second-guessing herself.

"What about…?" she trails off, but her point is clear.

You smile. "I don't know that he'd mind," you tell her. You reach up and brush your fingers through her hair. "I think he'd want us to be happy."

She returns your smile, but it's sad.

Your thumb traces her bottom lip.

"Are you?" she asks, and you give her a questioning look. "Are you happy?"

You look down at your left hand—the one that's holding the material of her pea coat—where you'd once worn the engagement ring you'd heedlessly accepted, the one he'd held in his much larger hand, the one that would curl into his chest when you danced with him.

For the first time, you understand that being dead doesn't mean being absent. That loving him doesn't mean you can't love her or anyone else without him physically being there with you.

She's getting nervous without an answer—you can tell by the way she shifts her weight—so you look back up at her.

"Yeah, Quinn," you whisper. You lean up and kiss her again and it's better than you remember it being the first time. "I think I am."

And, in an instant, Finn finishes bowing and steps into the wings.

The curtain closes and the lights come up.

..

_lieto fine_

…


End file.
